


The (Not So) Fine Art of Dating

by rogue_pixie88



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Date, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 13:51:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rogue_pixie88/pseuds/rogue_pixie88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Dean wants is a nice date with Castiel, he never guessed it'd be so hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The (Not So) Fine Art of Dating

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a gift for the lovely batmanboxers
> 
> Disclaimer: The story is mine, everything else belongs to Kripke.

Dean’s first try at implementing the somewhat foreign concept of dating is nothing dramatically romantic or particularly original. He plans to follow what’s been done a million times over, however since his intended date is an unconventional sort, he figures he can get away with it—a simple meal and a bit of his natural charm have gotta be a foolproof method of progression for him and Castiel. Nothing superfluous; a nice time in a place with considerably less grease than the average diner, not fancy or expensive but comfortable. _Intimate_. And blissfully free from the added weight of the supernatural.

By the time Cas angels in Dean’s spent the day working himself into a silent frenzy regarding tonight’s potential. He’s physically worn out from ping-ponging erratically between light anticipation and berating himself for acting like a goddamn girl, and Cas’ appearance does little to wet his dry mouth or rid his sweaty palms.

Finding the words to suggest to Cas they head out for something to eat doesn’t, at first stab, appear to be a monster struggle. It all sounds perfectly and painfully clear in his head, yet Dean’s inner triumph at Cas’ nod of assent to his proposal dies a horrific death when somehow they wind up in the Impala with an extra Sam-shaped passenger. Apparently his well-thought out invite was not as eloquent as he thought.

Why else would Sam decide he could tag along?

The date’s a success as far as Dean’s concerned. The atmosphere is pleasant, lively. The food is more edible than their usual fare, a satisfying weight in the depth of his gut, and conversation is relaxed and easy.

So yeah, a _definite_ winner.

If Dean conveniently disregards Cas is sipping his water, oblivious to the nature of the evening, and the sasquatch sized barrier sprawled loose-limbed at the table between them, effectively quashing all avenues of personal topics he wants to explore privately with Cas. Still, he gets points for trying, _right_?

*

After serious contemplation Dean concedes that maybe dinner was a bust—misunderstandings and miscommunication are not conducive to a worthwhile date. He kicks that plan to the curb and waits a week, weighing the prospective benefits and downsides of other date-like activities.

Hence date idea number two: catching a movie and maybe grabbing a hotdog when it’s done. It’s by far a more suitable pursuit and closer to Dean’s style than a pseudo-romantic dinner in a stuffy restaurant. Getting Cas to accompany him is an easy accomplished feat. One convincing fabrication about a particularly devious spirit haunting the movie theatre he’d spotted on the drive in, laying it on thick with the trouble it’s caused so far and what it could do if left to its own devices, and Cas and he are on their way to the movies.

Just the two of them.

The theatre is characteristically bathed in shadows, the only light source the giant screen which is currently showing the usual muscled action hero shooting haphazardly, driving flashy sports cars at reckless speeds and obscenely blowing up every building structure he happens across in spectacular balls of orange flames. The movie may not be Oscar worthy, not by a long shot, and the soda resting in the paper cup at Dean’s elbow is flat and warm, yet he can’t find it in himself to complain; psyching his body and mind to ascertain that he and Cas are on the same page robs him of the urge.

There’s perhaps thirty minutes of senseless violence and crass one-liners that even Dean wouldn’t use remaining when he steels himself to make his move, take that proverbial leap of faith and hope Cas catches him by allowing Dean to close the space separating them. Finally, they’re at the part Dean’s notoriously _good_ at; the physical representation of whatever emotion is flooding the pit of his stomach and blurring the corners of his brain.

Drawing Cas’ attention from the screen, tapping his arm with his fingertips, Dean swallows around the lump of apprehension in his throat. Light flickers and plays on the planes of Cas’ face, shadows and fire chasing one another. Dean takes a moment to absorb the sight and then he’s ready to swoop in for that first, obligatory magical touch of lips when the obnoxious kid he’s managed to ignore and not punch in the face for slamming his heavily-booted feet into their seatbacks, delivers a shuddering _thud_ responsible for tipping Cas’ patience over the precipice and shattering below.

Cas spins to confront the brat, glaring hard and positively crackling with energy of smiting intensity—the kind that causes a shiver to bolt up Dean’s spine and prickle his skin with gooseflesh—and chastises him in a dangerously and deceptively calm timbre. “If you continue I will be forced to remove you. We are here on a matter of great import, not to endure your juvenile disruptions.”

The kid mutters about _freaks_ under his breath and snatches his popcorn, not caring that he loses a few kernels in the swiftness of his action, and slinks back a few rows to inflict his feet on another unsuspecting idiot. Although Dean remains eternally grateful that Cas restrained himself and didn’t announce to the room of movie goers they were hunting ghosts, drowning in the cup of fizzless soda is all too inviting after that exchange because yep, the moment’s pretty much _dead_.

*

Following that, Dean gives up, punks out completely. Who’d have guessed the one thing Dean Winchester couldn’t do was score a _date_?

But whatever.

Two failures are enough of a dent to his ego to conclude dating is a debacle not worth the extra effort. If his potential partner can’t be seduced using a less than inventive pick-up line and a healthy dose of beer, what’s the point? Dean doesn’t need to pursue Cas. There’s a mass of eager bodies out there for way less hassle and drama. And if they can’t satisfy the insatiable want for something more—for _Cas_ —no-one has to know.

Sam’s question as to their plans for the night receives a half-hearted shrug from Dean; he’s making no more plans because Fate—tricky bitch she is—is delighting in screwing them up in creative ways. Dean’s perfectly content to kick lazily around the motel until they leave for their next job at sun-up.

That is until Cas adds his two cents and sends him off balance.

“I was expecting that you,” he says, looking pointedly at Dean over the text of ancient lore he’s examining, “would have further dates planned. Your previous attempts have been rather lacklustre considering your sexual history.”

Dean wasn’t expecting _that_.

He tosses the pillow from under his head at Sam to stop the spluttering laughter that’s choking him, and rounds on Cas, sitting at the small table who’s watching Dean through innocently wide eyes. He glares at him, schooling his face into an expression that doesn’t betray his present confusion.

“You knew what I was doing—the restaurant and the movie?” His mouth drops at Cas’ nod.

That’s peachy. Dean was convinced that despite Cas’ impressive knowledge of humanity’s inner workings and frivolous customs, he was ignorant to Dean’s own poor dating technique. Feeling uselessly out of his league and Cas knew all along, knew and let him blunder on like an idiot.

“Yes. You possess an arsenal of impressive talents, Dean; however, subtlety isn’t one of them.”

A fair enough point, he supposes, but decapitating a vampire in one powerful swing ain’t all Dean Winchester can do. He’s glad that Sam’s suitably disturbed by the utterly lascivious grin he gives Cas, and the implications it’s laced with. Sam grimaces and makes a hasty exit. He collects his duffle and laptop, and swipes Dean’s wallet to fund the room change, not at all eager to stick around and see certain things he’d rather not.

Alone with Cas, Dean pats the empty space beside him on the bed, his confidence brimming because _this_? He _knows_ this.

“C’mon, Cas, we’ll stick to dating my way from now on.” Cas’ smile as he wanders over tells Dean he's _finally_ getting the hang of this dating thing. Maybe there’s hope for him yet.

*


End file.
